


Still you try to control it.

by Feather (lalaietha)



Series: Settle in and find your home [11]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Gen, Sam is a mental health professional, Tony Stark Has Issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-08
Updated: 2017-08-08
Packaged: 2018-12-12 23:20:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,078
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11747289
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lalaietha/pseuds/Feather
Summary: "Stark," Sam says. Gives in and says.It's funny: when Tony Stark turns around, for just a split second he looks like he's panicked. Like Sam caught him doing something wrong, somehow, except he's not even sure what it would be. It's faint, it's gone in seconds, but Sam's been doing his job for a while now and he's good at catching those tiny flashes from men who tend to be past masters of hiding what they feel, even from themselves.He thinks about a talk he and Laura had about developmental ages versus years lived and wonders where she'd peg Tony Stark, if she knew him. Teenager? Younger?Stark doesn't actually answer in words, just uses his face and his whole posture and stance to say,yeah, what?It's pretty adept, actually: be really easy for that to come off irritable or dismissive or anxious, especially without words or tone of voice to point you the right way, but Stark manages to communicate something totally different. A kind of weightless curiosity, like sure, he wants to know what you want, but he's not fussed about it.[...]"Why," [Sam] asks, slowly and carefully, "are you so god-damned certain Steve's not at risk?"





	Still you try to control it.

**Author's Note:**

> Morning after [Everyone needs coffee cake.](http://archiveofourown.org/works/11716869)
> 
> It is in fact amusing to note that the text convo with Natasha at the bottom is indeed happening as she finishes up the renos she made Clint help her with over that long weekend.

Monday morning is a bit surreal. But maybe Sam should have just accepted that surreality is now his life, at this point. It's not likely to get better, he does realize that. 

Sam has breakfast with Stark, Rhodes, Banner and Ross again, and other than the part where Stark seems a bit sheepish, everything seems fine. Which is good. 

Also, "sheepish" is not something Sam would ever expect to think about Tony Stark, but there's no other way to put it. It's also a bit twitchy and wary, like he's waiting for something to go wrong or someone to mock him, take him to task, and he's less _intense_ than he was the first morning, but mostly Sam can't come up with anything better than "sheepish". 

Though - it's a kinda . . . cat-version of sheepish, as dumb as that sounds even inside Sam's head. But it really is. Like when a cat falls off something, or runs into something, and it's not the full on "I meant to do that" but a kind of "yeah so that happened and now I'm gonna groom my paw a lot." It's the kind that's less a driving need to appease and apologise, and more acknowledgement that comes with the rider "so can we all move on now? Please?" 

And Sam's happy to do so, and pretend that little awkward few minutes of watching Steve wince more and more before Ross came up to rescue them didn't happen. Or at least doesn't matter. Although that's not pretend. 

Mostly, Sam just thinks his life is now really weird. 

But Rhodes has definitely ratcheted down tension-levels about three points at least since yesterday. And the mental-health professional in Sam is glad about that, above and beyond it just being nice. The guy's probably been handling Stark's outbursts for, what - Jesus, at least fifteen years now, if they met in college? Maybe longer? The fact that he's calmer and less intense himself today implies he's gotten pretty good at it, and manages it more or less well for himself, and that's a relief. Lots of people don't. 

For their part, Ross and Banner are just kinda cute, in that way long-time married couples can be. Sam has no idea if they're officially married or even if they'd call themselves a married couple, but he feels pretty good saying it doesn't matter. The dynamic is right there, and it looks pretty good. 

So breakfast is good. And great food. It's just still happening in the penthouse of Stark Tower on a breakfast nook table that probably costs more than Sam's entire house, and was made by a chef who makes more a year than Sam does. Stark mentions he was going to cook himself, but he's only any good at omelettes and he decided he wanted waffles. Sam is . . .not complaining. It's even real maple syrup. His uncle used to bring that stuff from Vermont every couple years, and it's great. 

Basically, Sam figures if he thinks too much about the cost of this meal, he's gonna feel like he's been poleaxed, so he stops. 

Breakfast starts around seven and sort of dribbles off between seven-forty-five and eight-thirty. 

Ross ducks out first, when a timer goes off on her phone that tells her that her meeting with someone is in fifteen minutes: she takes a mug of coffee with her, kisses Banner on the cheek on her way out, and ignores the clear _sigh_ that Banner huffs in her direction, probably over the fact that she only ate about half her breakfast - she'd joined Stark in waffles that looked illegally good. But the look Banner sends after her is fond and exasperated, not concerned. 

"Doesn't she have an office-minion?" Stark asks. "Not the grad-student, the other one, the work-experience kid." 

"Actually, yeah," Banner says, like Stark reminded him. He checks his watch. "He gets in at, like, eight-thirty - " 

"Yeah leave him an email or something to come up and get it and take it down," Stark says, dismissive. "Getting coffee and shit is literally his job, and eight-thirty's still fucking breakfast time." 

Then Rhodes gets a phone-call that has him actually muttering _fuck_ and then answering it with, "Rhodes, hang on - ", hitting mute and standing up. 

He's obviously sitting on some deep disgust and irritation, aimed at who or whatever's behind the phone-call, as he says to the table at large, "I'm sorry, this is probably gonna take way longer than it should, so I'm gonna say nice to see you, have a great day," which he directs to Banner, who acknowledges it, and then to Sam he says, "honestly great to meet you, hope we run into each other again, seriously sorry I gotta do this." 

And then he's hurrying out to the balcony-cum-landing-pad with the tense shoulders of someone who anticipates a really long, infuriating argument. 

Banner looks at Stark, who shrugs. "Someone made the mistake of thinking they could get away with blocking his premier minion and that she wouldn't notice," he says. "She called around five. He said if he got a call back about it again this morning he was going to have to put the fear of something in someone, and - " he gestures. "Voilà." 

"I'm so glad I don't have to touch any of that stuff," Banner says. Sam definitely agrees, and that's one area he is going to keep his non-involvement in pretty firm. He will, for the good of the world, take on trying to practice way, way above his training level? And he will even get shot at for the good of humankind. But he's not taking on the fucking bureaucracy, even if it shows up. 

"If he starts cutting through the air with one hand for emphasis," Stark remarks cheerfully, "we'll know it's really bad. Oh hey let's all stare and see if he notices." 

Sam shakes his head slightly, hiding a smile, and is stabbing more parts of his steak-and-eggs when Stark looks back, sees that neither of them are joining him and says, "Hey, come on, it's not awkward if it's just me. You guys are terrible at hazing." 

"When's Pepper home again?" Banner asks, dryly, while Sam still tries not to smile. 

"Six," Stark answers, promptly. "In theory, anyway." 

If he's putting _any_ effort, this time, into pretending he's not counting down the hours like a kid counting down to a birthday party, it . . . isn't helping. 

Banner asks about Sam's travel plans, and they make other small-talk over the last of breakfast with plenty of Stark's weird tangents and non-sequitors ("It's actually 'octopodes', it's Greek. Like it's also octo-whatever-the-fuck-people-actually-say because English is a common-usage language just like every other fucking language out there because we really should not give so much of a fuck about what a bunch of uptight seventeenth-century assholes thought about trying to pretend English would be better if it sucked Latin's dick more, but if you're going for actual association of plural and language of origin, 'octopi' is _more_ wrong than octopuses and it should be _octopodes_ \- "). 

Eventually Banner checks his watch and says his good-byes, because it's just about eight-thirty. 

Sam doesn't feel like rushing, and doesn't feel like it's super-awkward for him to take a minute or two to finish his coffee. Besides, it gives him a couple minutes to actually say thank-you for the room, and breakfasts, and . . . all the rest. Which is something he always does feel awkward about if there's someone _else_ holding the door, or the elevator, or whatever. 

So he does. Because weirdly enough - and he almost wants to touch wood for thinking it, again - he is going home at least no more exhausted and drained than he left, and if the flight's nice and the airport's not awful, it might even count as relaxing. 

"No problem," Stark says, as they shake hands, but it's not . . .quite as dismissive as Sam expects. "I mean, seriously no problem, consider yourself on standing welcome, whatever reason you're in town." 

It's not only less dismissive, it's actually more sincere - not like he's waving the thanks away, but like he wants Sam to take both the demurral and the invitation seriously. Like it's genuinely no imposition, and he's genuinely extending welcome. Stark goes on, "For, you know, reasons less stressful. Fun ones, even - don't have to wait for me to drag you over here for tests or anything. Especially since," he says, with the sigh of a teenager confronted with homework, "I do kinda have to do some specific stuff over the next little while or Pepper might throw me out." 

"Well," Sam says, letting that one earn some amusement, "I honestly appreciate it. Because you're right, it was a lot nicer than the hotel I was going to book." 

"Yeah, well," Stark says, and it's a bit wry, "thanks for saving the world, and all that shit. The rest of us kinda dropped that one, it's a good thing you were around to catch it." 

It is weirdly and even surprisingly gratifying, and Sam's gonna have to think about why exactly later on, maybe on the plane. He shrugs. "Well, you know," he says, and matches the wry, "Captain America shows up on your door and needs help fighting evil, it's not like you can just say 'here's a twenty for the cab, let me know how it goes.'"

"Yeah he's really fucking annoying like that," Stark says, and it's like the thought actually derails him, or switches his train of thought onto a different track at least, because he sort of looks half-up like he's thinking about it. "I mean there's the whole cultural thing, weight, 'Captain America' - " he scare-quotes, "- whatever, but I think it's also, like, he has this whole - " Stark makes a circular gesture in the direction of his own face and says, " _face_ , thing, and with the projecting sincerity like a foot from his body, it's kind of obnoxious - anyway, doesn't matter, relevant point is just because you felt compelled, doesn't mean it wasn't a good thing, or people shouldn't be grateful." 

Yeah, Sam thinks, he's definitely going to have to think over why it's _that_ gratifying to get thanked by Tony Stark. Maybe because he's not sure he's heard the guy ever say thank you before, despite all his very public life? But he'll need to think about it. 

For now, Sam just acknowledges that with a sort of half-smile and incline of his head. 

"And not to mention this stuff," Stark adds. "But yeah, point is: standing invitation, next time just shoot Janine an email and she'll get someone to handle the flights, too, we're sending so many people so many places these days we should just start our own airline except then we'd need more people, so we actually get better deals on better flights, all that stuff. And I'll keep you updated on the wings." 

And then there's the normal thanks-thanks, goodbye-goodbye, and Sam's _almost_ taking the elevator down when it turns out that no: he just can't actually do it. Especially not when he's just had hard evidence the man might be in a talking-about-shit mood, and maybe Sam'll regret it, but he does have to ask. 

"Stark," Sam says. Gives in and says. 

It's funny: when Tony Stark turns around, for just a split second he looks like he's panicked. Like Sam caught him doing something wrong, somehow, except he's not even sure what it would be. It's faint, it's gone in seconds, but Sam's been doing his job for a while now and he's good at catching those tiny flashes from men who tend to be past masters of hiding what they feel, even from themselves. 

He thinks about a talk he and Laura had about developmental ages versus years lived and wonders where she'd peg Tony Stark, if she knew him. Teenager? Younger? 

Stark doesn't actually answer in words, just uses his face and his whole posture and stance to say, _yeah, what?_ It's pretty adept, actually: be really easy for that to come off irritable or dismissive or anxious, especially without words or tone of voice to point you the right way, but Stark manages to communicate something totally different. A kind of weightless curiosity, like sure, he wants to know what you want, but he's not fussed about it. 

Sam wonders if the man even knows how to be unstudied anymore. Probably not. 

'Studied' - and so 'unstudied', as its opposite - is one of Madlen's words. She was annoyed with the only other ones she had for the idea being things like 'artful', or the implications and connotations of 'not genuine' and that kinda stuff. Because people can be sincere, can really mean what they say and believe it, and still be shaping every single second as carefully as they can, conscious of it the whole time. It's not even 'careful', exactly, because that implies you're really thinking about it, but it's . . . 

When Sam used to do his jumps, he wasn't exactly _careful_ , he didn't have any fuss over equipment or anything else: he just did things _right_. He took care, but he wasn't careful. People can be like that about how they interact, and that doesn't mean they're fake either - and that, Sam thinks, is exactly what Tony Stark is all day every day. Not false, but _studied_. 

You could find it hard to believe, given some of the shit that comes out of his mouth, but that just assumes your goals for any given conversation are the same as his. Which is always a bad assumption with anyone, especially someone you don't know really well. 

Sam's pretty sure the only unstudied words he's heard from the guy this whole trip were the few he picked up through the wall when him and Steve were still trying to figure out what would be more awkward, standing there while Stark and Rhodes yelled at each other in the other room, or quietly leaving and risking Stark coming out afterwards and finding they'd just left. 

The point is, Madlen came up with that way of saying stuff because studied _doesn't_ mean false, or fake, or even deceptive. Just that someone's learned they never want to act on impulse or without thinking first. And Stark is pretty goddamn studied about everything he does. 

For a guy Sam's pretty sure has a disorder that literally comes with impulse control problems, that's kind of impressive. But maybe that's the trick: Stark can't control the impulses, but he can control how he acts about the impulses. And around them. 

That might actually be almost kinda Zen, but then he'd have to think Tony Stark was kinda Zen and that might actually make his head explode. And be the worst use of the word _Zen_ ever. 

"Look," Sam says, and tries to think how to word this so it gets through and gets him what he wants instead of bouncing off the walls of Stark's defense mechanisms. He can sort of see why the guy doesn't have a lot of close friends. He's almost as much work as Riley on a really bad day, and Sam doesn't have affection to fall back on and make him not notice. But he picks his tone, carefully, shifts right out of friendly guest and into something a lot more like a colleague or . . . something. "Whether or not it matters, I appreciate everything you're doing." 

Stark looks like he might say something but Sam holds up both hands. "Wait," he says, "just, stop, and let me finish." 

And apparently that's the right tone, at least for now, because Stark aborts the comment and instead makes a little _okay, keep going, all ears_ kind of gesture. The guy talks with his hands a _lot_. 

"I need to ask you something," Sam tells him, levelly, "and I would really appreciate it, right now, if you could give me a straight, no-bullshit answer. No games, no verbal fencing matches - just an answer." 

" . . . I'll give it a shot," Stark replies, and Sam thinks there might even be a little uncertainty in there. But that's not that important. And the fact that the guy's neither blowing him off with something like _never going to happen_ , or blowing off how much he fucks around, or even just saying _yes_ \- which'd probably be a bit of a lie, except Sam hasn't asked him the question yet - is . . . a good sign. Sam thinks. 

"Alright," he says. He takes a deep breath. " _Why_ ," he asks, slowly and carefully, "are you so god-damned certain Steve's not at risk?" 

Because it's been fucking driving him crazy. And maybe, maybe Sam's a tiny sliver more hopeful that this isn't a guaranteed catastrophe that he's just marking time on, and maybe seeing the guy sitting reading a book made him think maybe _the man himself_ has more of a chance of figuring his shit out, maybe? But none of that says anything about Steve being safe. Sam doesn't feel any better about that. 

He just is absolutely rock-solid sure it doesn't fucking matter, and he should just forget about trying to talk to Steve about it. 

Before now, Sam was willing to write Stark's conviction off as Stark being a fucking idiot, because it's not like the guy Sam's seen on TV and in the news couldn't be that stupid on the interpersonal level, but the last few days . . . he's not comfortable with that anymore. There's other shit, sure, the guy could still just either be stupid about it or so damaged it's the same thing but - 

There is nothing about risk _assessment_ this guy isn't good at. Acting on it, sure. But not seeing it. Not understanding it. The man's not just paranoid, it's a _smart_ paranoia, one that can think and actually get a handle on things, so now, knowing that, seeing that - it _bugs_ Sam, that Stark's still so sure. 

And he is. Sam doesn't even have to ask him, Sam _knows_ he is. It's there in everything he does, the way he even talks about Steve: any concern Stark has there, it's about the outside world, about the government, the military, that shit. Not about Barnes. It's all about protecting Steve _and_ Barnes from other people, not the former from the latter. 

Sam . . . he'd like to understand why. Because that makes no fucking sense. 

Over the next few seconds Sam watches a bunch of different expressions sort of get half way to forming on Stark's face. He'll call this the second unstudied set of reactions he's witnessed, because he thinks he might have actually thrown Stark so much he can't get ahead of his own responses. 

Annoyance starts, and gets cut off by a kind of deep thought, and that gets overtaken by an almost frustrated scowl, and then a couple others too fast for Sam to read before settling into one he actually kind of knows. Which is the one that says _how the fuck do I put what you need to get into language you have a hope in hell of understanding._

Sam has worn that look. He's also seen that look from clients a _lot_ , struggling with their own internal symbol sets and assumptions and trying to get across what's going on in their heads. 

"Look," Stark says, and now for the first time Sam remembers the guy's pushing fifty. That's how different everything about him is from before. It's like a weight lands on his shoulders, like a spring winds down. Like some of what he's obviously (in retrospect) perpetually running from catches up with him. 

"The thing is - " and Stark stops again, glancing upwards and gesturing with both hands like he's trying to shape words out of the air. "Okay so. Pain is not a fucking Olympic sport, alright. It's not a fucking competition. There's no fucking high score."

He looks at Sam like he's trying to see if Sam gets what he's saying, and goes on, "I'm not trying to same I'm more fucked up or less fucked up or anything than anyone else you want to name. I mean, I am more fucked up than some people," he interrupts himself to note, and Sam can't argue with that. "And been through more shit. Worse shit. But on the other hand, _other_ people have been through more and worse than me and are even more fucked up. Or they've been through worse and more and are less fucked up - point is, it's not a fucking contest. Doesn't matter." 

Sam nods, just to show he gets what Stark's saying. It's actually a pretty sophisticated perspective, maybe more than he expected, given how Stark acts. On the other hand, Potts couldn't've been in _great_ shape after the AIM mess, and she hasn't thrown him out, so maybe he even just had to learn it right then. 

Stark opens his hands. "So, right. You . . . " he waves a hand at Sam, "I mean you see fucked up all the time, it's your job. I'd imagine even if you haven't got to throw up on the fucking merry-go-round yourself by now you're pretty familiar with how it looks." 

"That's an interesting metaphor," Sam says, because there's a beat long enough to feel like Stark's waiting for some other kind of sign Sam agrees with him. Stark shrugs. 

"Stick around, I haven't even had three coffees yet - anyway - the thing is," Stark goes on, skimming over the self-deprecation like a rock skipping on still water, "honestly, I didn't get how you guys could _not_ get it. Like this is so fucking obvious to me. Drove me nuts for a while because I actually know none of you are stupid, but there you all are, were, being stupid. It was crazy. To me it was crazy. But I think the thing is, the difference is - "

The sentence trails off and he drops his hand. Exhales in a huff. "I know something," he says, almost heavily, "about being completely fucking out of control." 

Sam blinks. Feels himself shift his weight a little, folds his arms while he absorbs that. Stark waves a hand again. 

"I mean, like, look at all of you," he says, and if Sam's not a hundred percent sure who all he's including he gets enough to get the point. "You're all functional human beings. You, Bruce, Betty, Hill, Pepper, all of you - your lives all _work_. You're basically in control. You can keep things going. I . . . I guess I forget a lot, that most people are like that. At least, most people who aren't . . . who haven't burned out their last chances." 

Stark shrugs, his palms open, and there's a lot left unsaid. Sam thinks he catches some of it - some kind of acknowledgement that most people _have_ to make their lives work, because if they don't they don't _have_ lives, because they don't have the cushion of money and status and - let's face it - valuable genius between them and the pavement. 

Sam has clients whose lives are out of control. For most people, what that looks like starts at legal trouble and ends up on the street if they're lucky, or in jail if they're not. Or dead. But on the other hand, the cushions Stark has just means he's got more leeway and, Sam does have to admit, the guy did blow up his own house at the end of a bender and that's just the shit that got into the papers, the shit people like Sam know about. 

Money and privilege might make the cleanup happen where it wouldn't otherwise, but that doesn't actually mean Stark hasn't been as out of control as anyone Sam's had to help hobble through. And that is . . . a point. 

"I know something about being completely fucking out of control," Stark repeats. "I forget other people don't, so you don't . . . shit doesn't look the same to you. But so keeping that in mind just . . . trust me. I've never even fucking spoken to him," and here Stark looks acid-wry amused again, "and I'm still pretty fucking certain that I . . . understand more about some of what's going on in this poor fucker's head than you guys do. About why the fuck you do things, or you don't." 

Sam nods. It's a slow nod, it's more acknowledgement than agreement and he knows Stark knows that, but still: he has a point. 

"The guy doesn't want to kill Rogers, Wilson," Stark says, simply. He's hooked the thumbs of both hands in his back pockets, the kind of open-body-posture that _isn't_ about confidence, is about trying to be as transparent as you can. "And like that's not a neutral," he adds, now holding one hand up. "I don't mean he just . . . lacks some kind of active drive to kill the idiot. I mean the 'doesn't want' part is what he wants, _that's_ the active desire."

His hand goes back where it was. "I mean he actively wants _the opposite_ , I mean _he wants Rogers alive._ Fuck, I mean he _desperately_ wants that. It's fucking sad, honestly: whoever, whatever is left of an actual human being in there wants Steve Rogers alive, wants Steve Rogers to _exist_ , and he wants it more than anything else in the fucking world. And if that weren't true," he finishes, gesturing to Sam again, "Rogers'd already be dead, and so would you." 

Stark's face is dead serious, now. Sam shifts his weight, tilts his head the other way - he doesn't want to say anything, because the impulse to answer is _you're serious_ and that's not what's going to keep this in useful places because it is really obvious that Stark is _really_ tense about how Sam's going to take this, but Sam can't think of anything else to say, so he just waits. Let's Stark see he's thinking about this. 

"I mean it." Stark puts the palms of his hands together and turns his fingertips towards Sam, marking a beat in the air for emphasis. "He could've shot Rogers in the fucking head while they stared at each other. He could've shot Rogers in the fucking face after you played kickball with his head and Romanoff missed blowing him up - he was still on his feet, I mean I can't remember if he was still holding his fucking gun but it's not like there weren't a lot around. You think he couldn't've stuck around and killed you? You think Pierce would've even cared if he had to go through the STRIKE fuckers to do it, to make it look right, make it look like they weren't on the same side?" 

Which is . . . another fair point. Sam wants to argue it but ends up with the memory of the moment Barnes took hold of his wing, yanked him out of the air. And the moment of realizing how many people Barnes killed, casually and almost coincidentally, to get into the quinjet he took up to the helicarriers. Sam _wants_ to say no: he _and_ Steve would've been too much, and definitely him and Steve and Rumlow-and-STRIKE having to still fucking pretend to be on the side of angels but - 

That . . . might be a stupid thing to say. 

That might be wishful thinking. 

Sam might have some post-facto nightmares about that now, actually. Fuck. 

Stark shakes his head, gaze staying steady on Sam. "He could've shot Rogers instead of kicking him off the fucking helicarrier," he says, flat. "He could've shot _you_ , or just caved your face in while he had you by the wing. Fuck, he could've climbed up and finished Rogers off after he shot him on the fucking helicarrier and then fucking _fuck_ , Wilson, I mean Rogers lay there and gave him carte blanche to beat him to death." 

One arm sweeps open, presenting that, and the next words. "It doesn't even stop there! He could've let the guy drown, he could've broken his neck on the beach, he could've killed both of you seven hundred times over all the months you were looking for him given he clearly knew where to find you and by any sane measure you are a fucking _threat_ , you were _hunting him_ \- and he _never does a damn thing_. I mean, how hard does this guy have to work to keep Steve Rogers alive before it gets obvious?" 

And then Stark holds up a hand, and Sam does him the courtesy of stopping. 

"And you're giving me this fucking funny look," Stark acknowledges, "and that's because you're thinking about him like he's a guy in control. Like he's a guy who gets to make choices about what he's doing, what he's not doing, like a normal fucking human being, and you gotta - " Stark stops. His hands go to his waist like he needs somewhere to put them, and he looks up before he looks down, exhaling in a single heavy _huff_ of air. 

"You gotta stop thinking that," Stark says, meeting Sam's gaze. "He's not. This guy, _he_ doesn't fucking know what he's gonna do, any given second. What his brain's gonna throw at him, what that's gonna drag out of his head, Christ. He's not in control. He hasn't been in control for fucking decades, I bet he doesn't even know what it would feel like anymore, his whole fucking life's been doing shit because it's fucking wired in or beaten in or what the fuck ever, reacting before he even fucking knows how he feels, assuming he ever does, and if his actual fucking consciousness is working at all it's just kind of dragged along for the ride, and sometimes - "

He looks away; the way his arms cross is pretty blatantly defensive. And he looks his age again, and Sam realizes the guy's pretty tall, around same height as Steve but he's not . . .big. 

And he's not . . . wrong either. Sam's mind is giving him all the fucking jargon, even pulling up citations for all the ways _he_ knows this shit and it's still kind of hard to grasp. Sam's not sure Stark is right, not _totally_ right about all of it and what it means but he's not . . . wrong, either. 

Also, he's a fucking human disaster. Sam really hopes Potts . . . gets something out of their relationship. He can absolutely believe she does, he's been there, but he still hopes it's true because Jesus motherfucking Christ Tony Stark has to be a lot of work. 

Stark sighs. He shrugs and says, "I forget most people have no idea what that feels like," his voice back under more control than it had been. "Even when it happens to them it's . . . I mean, it's rare." 

He drops his arms, rubs the back of his neck, shrugs again. "It something that happens when they're stupidly drunk, or maybe the one or two times in their life they're fucking terrified, and hey maybe they even fool themselves because they can, so even when it's happening to them they tell themselves it all makes sense, they make up reasons and they can buy their own bullshit, because it's not . . . everything. Everywhere. All the time. Even when it happens, it's the exception. The other thing, that's normal. Choosing. Knowing why you do something. Thinking first." 

"Yeah," Sam acknowledges, quietly. "You're right." When Stark looks totally caught out in surprise, it's Sam's turn to shrug. "Honestly one of the hardest parts of what I do is getting people to see and admit when they're fooling themselves about that, stop making up reasons why what they're doing makes sense, because it doesn't, because it's actually a set of unhealthy reactions their brain's got way too used to, and they can't start fixing it if they don't see that it's broken. So - you're right. Even people who have a problem with it - mostly they can still manage to get away with fooling themselves." 

"It's hard to remember that," Stark says. "I mean it makes all of you make some fucking sense again when I do, but it's still fucking hard." 

Sam lets the silence breathe - anything he says is going to come out false, so the pause can be the acknowledgement, until Stark takes a breath, shakes it off and goes to speak again.

"The one fucking thing Barnes has done over and over again," he says, quiet and level, one arm still folded and the other half unfolded so he can punctuate the words with one hand, "is show that what he _actually wants_ is for Steve Rogers to live. Every damn time. He hesitated, he ran, he fucked around, he fucking broke fuck knows what kind of fucking . . . Skinner box conditioning shit, plus however the fucking brain-wipe shit actually worked, and then like that isn't enough he went _into_ the wreckage in the Potomac to drag Rogers out alive - _and_ ," Stark adds a final jab of his hand as he leans into the word, "he did all when the _only thing_ Rogers has caused him at any point is pain, confusion and misery, because I think we can fucking assume that it did not go well when he told Pierce he fucked up." 

Stark runs the fingers of one hand through his hair. "Fuck, Wilson," he says, "just about the only thing I think we can count on with this guy is that he is _not_ going to kill Rogers and neither is _any-fucking-one else_ , not if he has to fucking, I don't know, eat a fucking H-bomb to do it. That's it, right there. That's all we got: he does _not_ want Steven Grant Rogers to be dead." 

He hesitates, and then adds, quieter, "And by now, I guess - I guess we have that, and that he wants to be wherever Rogers is. Considering he's still here, and he came back in the first place." 

There's a lot to take in about what Stark just said but Sam - well. Something about that phrasing hooks into Sam's train of thought and hauls it onto a sideline with _no_ consideration, so he runs it through his head again before he says, "Wait - came _back_?" 

"Yeah," Stark says, dismissive, "he fucked off for a couple days after about a week. Didn't last long." 

Sam can't stop himself, physically cannot keep himself from covering his face with one hand, as at least half of the belated adrenaline rush dumps itself into his system. He is going to _kill_ Steve, is what he thinks, even as he already knows he's not, and in fact he's not even going to bring it up, because _fuck_ , fuck no, no of _course_ Steve didn't tell him. Of course he didn't, he wouldn't, Sam knows exactly why and fuck he is going to _kill him anyway_ , at least inside his own brain. God _damn_ it. God _damn_ \- 

Jesus H Fucking Frog. Now he needs a drink. It's like nine in the fucking morning and he needs a drink. Many drinks. Jesus Christ. 

"Steve didn't say," Sam notes, as calmly as possible. Stark shrugs. 

"Why would he?" he says, brutally casual. "What were you going to do about it, besides panic?"

And there's that, too. 

_Fucking Goddamn hell._

Stark goes on, "Steve ended up here after a day or so, pretending he wasn't panicking. Badly. I have never met someone that bad at lying," Stark adds, like it's a side-note. "It's ridiculous. Like I started out thinking he had to be fucking with everyone because nobody could be that bad but no, he's just a shitty, shitty fucking liar. Anyway. I told him to calm down. I knew either the guy'd already actually killed himself, or he'd be back in a few more hours, and if it was the first one there wasn't anything Steve could do about it so I told him to wait. Turns out the guy took coming back over taking a bullet." 

Stark folds his arms again and sighs, gaze dropping to the floor in front of Sam's shoes. "Look," he says. "Don't think of this guy like he's a normal guy overwhelmed with . . . bad shit and the wrong kind of reflexes, okay. It's the other way around. He's a clusterfuck of reflexes trying to figure out how to . . . be a person." 

The churning stew that is now all that's left of Sam's conscious thought process tosses out a spar, a cue, drawing him back to when he'd remembered talking to Laura earlier. About stages, development. Emotional shit. "Dysregulation appropriate to early rather than adult development," he murmurs, mostly to himself, but loud enough that Stark hears. 

And stares at him like he just derailed _Stark's_ thought processes. "Who with the what with Colonel Mustard and the candlestick?" he demands, and Sam shakes his head, letting it go. 

"Basically, my supervisor agrees with you," he says. "On that part, anyway." 

And suddenly for the first time Sam's seen, Stark looks _concerned_. 

"Wait," he says, "you talk to your supervisor about this?" and it's really hard for Sam not to laugh. 

"And out of everything _that's_ what concerns you," he says, because he can't help it. He thinks about what Stark said about impulses while he does it. Stark doesn't pick up the thread of humour, and honestly looks pretty damned worried. 

"Yeah it kinda is," he says, "given - " 

"Laura's fine," Sam says, suppressing the smile because it's complicated and, for that matter, mostly sad. "We're working within plausible deniability and honestly if anything she's more worried about Barnes than anyone else is except maybe Steve, she's . . . a good perspective. And yes, I trust her," he finishes, "and trust me, we're lucky I know her." 

Stark seems to accept that, if maybe only because he has to. "Fair enough." 

The Stark hesitates a moment and adds, like he feels compelled, "I mean, to be totally honest - Rogers may wind up in the ER a few times. I mean. Impulse control problems, they're a problem." He gives an open-handed shrug and Sam fights not to laugh. "But that doesn't seem to bother him, and honestly I think by now it's been pretty clearly demonstrated you'd have to work really hard, and probably for more than like fifteen minutes to actually risk killing the guy. Barnes isn't going to do it by accident just because he freaks out, that kind of thing . . .doesn't really last that long." 

The last part has the guilty half-ashamed note of _I know this one from the inside._ Sam's a bit more theatrical about covering his face this time, and then he says, "Alright. I get it. I'm not sure you're _right_ , I'm not sure I agree with all your conclusions," he clarifies and Stark snorts, "but I get it." 

"It's fine," he replies, bland to the point of pointedness. "I'm used to people doubting my brilliance, I'll still be here when I'm vindicated. But no seriously," he adds, less defensively. "It's fine. I . . .get that, too." 

Sam can't leave it at that. He just can't. For a lot of reasons, including a kind of instinct he's pretty prone to trust about details of interpersonal dynamics and that kind of shit, one that's served him well, that says this isn't where he should let this go - all the _more so_ , if anything, for how . . . raw, put it that way, the whole subject's likely to have been. 

So instead he asks, in a completely different and way more casual tone of voice, "So given the whole speech about being out of control, that kind of thing - " and at Stark's _yeah okay go on_ gesture, Sam finishes up with, "that thing with the race in Monaco - ?"

"No - that was very deliberate, pre-meditated self-destruction," Stark replies, tone droll. "Actually now that I think about it I actually think I stood in front of the mirror and asked myself if I had any other terrible ideas, before I decided to do it. Totally different kind of fucked up. But on the other hand," he notes, "the thing with the press-conference - well, both of them, like the one where I got everyone to sit down and the whole I Am Iron Man one - those were impulse control problems." He pauses. "Especially the I-Am-Iron-Man one. Everheart's bad for my impulse control, it's why I'm not allowed to talk to her anymore without a chaperone." 

"Nice that you're so self-aware about it," Sam observes, dryly, and Stark actually smirks. 

"Admit your flaws first and loudest," he says, "and suddenly your enemies are shooting blanks." 

And he's not wrong about that, either.

*

**  
_post-script_  
**

 **Stark** : so did u _tell_ wilson ur roomm8 took off 4 3 days? at all?  
 **Me** : No, I didn't get around to it.   
**Stark** : well he knows now, just so u know.   
**Stark** : i know this 'deception' thing ur not 2 good @ but ftr keeping secrets works better if u let other ppl who know about it that its a secret.   
**Me** : No it's fine, I just didn't get around to it. I knew it would be awkward. I was waiting until I had more time to think about how to broach it. Then I kinda forgot about telling him. Don't worry about it.   
**Stark** : u should prbly tell romanoff b4 he does just sayin.   
**Me** : Thanks for the advice, Tony. 

 

**me** : I am incredibly fucking sorry for my entire life.   
**Pep** : Oh my god what did you do.   
**Pep** : rephrase: what did you do RECENTLY that I don't already know about and yes Rhodey told on you about not sleeping.   
**me** : that's because he's terrible, and nothing, there was a conversation, I'll tell you when you get home, I'm just sorry for everything about me.   
**Pep** : Tony go have a nap.   
**Pep** : <3 

 

**Sam** : did steve at any point tell you that barnes took off for three days like the second week he was in NYC?  
 **Me** : No.   
**Me** : Doesn't surprise me, though.   
**Me** : Either part. You remember when I told you I was getting edgy.  
 **Sam** : think it was then?  
 **Me** : Dead certain.   
**Sam** : fortunately I only found that out this morning as I was leaving so I do not have to suppress the urge to kill him right now.  
 **Sam** : And I can just let it die down.   
**Sam** : You were right about the difference in Steve, too. Except I think it's even more now than you were saying. And I told him that, and he agreed to stop spinning what he was telling me, so we'll see how that goes.   
**Me** : See? You are a miracle worker.


End file.
